


memories are bullets

by cirrus (themorninglark)



Series: SASO 2017 [22]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Challenge: Sports Anime Shipping Olympics | SASO 2017, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 15:46:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11581179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/cirrus
Summary: The ice is cold, a cruel, exacting mistress. This is different.In which JJ takes to the stage, and Isabella's in the audience.





	memories are bullets

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SASO 2017 Bonus Round 4: Quotes | [originally posted here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/23665.html?thread=13923185#cmt13923185)
> 
> “Memories are bullets. Some whiz by and only spook you. Others tear you open and leave you in pieces.”   
> ― Richard Kadrey, Kill the Dead

There's a moment on stage when everything goes bright.  
  
It’s the opposite of how it is, JJ imagines, when people say  _everything goes dark_ , the opposite of what it is to pass out; the lights are hot and they are electric through his body, lyrics thick in the air as he belts them out at the top of his lungs. The entire stadium is on their feet. His name is a hypnotic chorus, his own name, and the music washes over him like a prayer.  
  
There’s a moment on stage that JJ knows intimately.  
  
It’s not his first rodeo, playing with a band. He could kiss the spotlight that finds its way to him now, casts him in dazzling relief, and he could wear it on his lips for days to come. His every word, every idle boast laced with that careless confidence, a gilt-edged glamour that’s sweet as syrup.   
  
The ice is cold, a cruel, exacting mistress. This is different. So JJ soaks it up, drinks it in, until his parched throat is a burning desert and he cannot tell where one thirst ends and another begins.   
  
As the anthem soars to its heady peak, a flower flies across the stage and lands at his feet. It’s no blushing rose wrapped in cellophane. It’s a gerbera, bursting into orange flame, and when he looks down, there’s Isabella at the front of the mosh pit.   
  
The wandering lights catch silver at her throat, for a moment, the pendant glittering starlike against her pale skin. Her lipstick is a rich wine-red.   
  
JJ doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t pause to pick up the flower, for he is a consummate performer and he knows Isabella will understand. She will understand even if it gets trampled in the rush of things. She probably expected it to be. Lord knows, she’s used to broken things, being with him, and he would never take it for granted, he would never take anything about her for granted. But his apologies and his gratitude are a cocktail that tastes like diesel fire in his mouth.   
  
He can do  _anything_ , he knows. He is impatient and restless to do  _everything_ , to carve his initials across the sky; if he cannot do it in comets and constellations, if he cannot do it on the ice—  
  
This is where he’ll do it, then. It’s not the victory tour he thought it’d be, but he’s still standing, his voice like rough glass put back together from all those tear-stained shards. Piece by piece, by hand.  
  
There’s a moment on stage when JJ feels his heart beat true again, bleeding honest and open with nowhere to hide, and it’s when she says his name. He can hear her, clear as a bell among the chants of the crowd.  _JJ. JJ. JJ._


End file.
